


motion sickness

by easiIyamused



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Disassociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Making Out, Mental Health Issues, Other, also, because they can now!, no beta and i'm dyslexic so bare with us, not explicitly described but Aziraphale has them because he has an unspecified anxiety problem, two halves of a whole idiot whom love each other, we recovering!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 03:58:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19845085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/easiIyamused/pseuds/easiIyamused
Summary: getting better is hard, especially when you kind of miss the bad old days.this is part of my 'is not a real hell better than a manufactured heaven' au, which i've been writing around for a while but which you don't really need to know much about to read this. the bare bones are that they are human young adults and aziraphale was raised by the archangels, who are human(ish) adults running a huge boarding school in the countryside. at this point, he has cut off all contact with 'the family' and is staying in the houseshare where crowley lives with anathema, newt and shadwell, who is a terrible landlord.





	motion sickness

**Author's Note:**

> mr sheen if you’re reading this and you like it. could i please have some money and/or validation? i’m gay.
> 
> also everything is in lower case because i like the look of it, the actual text has good grammar and punctuation i promise.

The light that Crowley’s room gets in the morning is beautiful. It would be even nicer, he thinks, if he hadn’t painted all the walls black, but he has an aesthetic that demands to be maintained. From where he’s sprawled on the window seat, he can look out and down onto the sleepy high street, which in turn is bathed in the glow of the sunrise. It’s Sunday, so there’s no rush to open up shop and therefore very little noise, no royal mail van cluttering down the cobbled road, but the dog walkers are still at it and so the only thing breaking the silence is the odd few yaps from the town dentist’s weimaraner puppy. Satisfied with the scene, Crowley yawns and picks up his coffee mug. 

The coffee is absolutely freezing, which is his own fault. He had made it an hour ago, along with a tea for Aziraphale, and bought it quietly up to his-their room with the card and present he had bought him weeks earlier. Aziraphale had almost cried at the message in the card, softy that he is, and kissed him with such conviction that he’d had to get onto the bed and kiss back more and harder. The drinks had sat untouched on the window seat ever since. Making out with Aziraphale is not exactly new, but now, Crowley thinks, now it’s more gratifying. There’s less anxiety to it, more excitement. And the face that his boyfriend makes when he pulls away, blushing with blown out pupils and grinning so much that his nose scrunches up, makes all the shit seem really, properly worth it. He looks over to the bed and notices a dent in the left pillow from where Aziraphale had been sitting up reading is still there. He’d stayed there while they were making out earlier, pushed up against the headboard, only moving when he realised he was going to be late for church and needed to haul ass. It’s not the cathedral he used to go to, just a small local congregation, and Aziraphale doesn’t attend services, just helps out at the sunday school. But he still dresses up, old habits die hard. Crowley had helped him with his cufflinks and stupid cravat, kissed the inside of his right wrist, told him how lovely he looked. Almost the same, but different without the blue tie they had insisted upon and the gilded crucifix he used to be unable to sleep without. Better. Crowley saw him to the door, kissed him on the cheek quickly, told him happy birthday again and then waved him off before going back upstairs. Time to perch on the window seat and gloat at how hard he’s crushing this boyfriend thing.

Crowley wakes up to the sound of the front door slamming shut, and promptly realises that he’s slept all twisted up, neck bent back and one leg dangling off the ledge he’s laying on. He rolls off ungracefully, clattering to the floor before scrambling up. Aziraphale’s little analog blue alarm clock which sits on the bedside table tells him that it’s nearly one. Crowley groans and fumbles around for literally any piece of clothing which isn’t pyjamas, settling for an archaic t shirt for some band and the cleanest pair of black trousers he can find. As he’s changing he hears Aziraphale call up the stairs, asking if he’s alright. “I’m fine, angel! I fell asleep on the fucking window, is all! Twisted my back up!” He can almost hear the eye roll.  
“You shouldn’t have woken up so early, you exhausted yourself!” Aziraphale calls back. By now Crowley’s crashing down the stairs, skidding to a halt in the hall and staring at Aziraphale, who is wearing his glasses and carrying a stack of kids books with a slightly worried expression, “really, my dear, I don’t know what possessed you to wake up at five in the morning. You could have put your back out, sleeping like that, there was really no need-”  
“-no need?” Crowley takes half the books out of his hands, places them on the ground, looks up at him, “Aziraphale, it’s your birthday.”  
“Well- Oh, I don’t know.” Aziraphale sighs and puts the rest of the books on the pile. Now they are level. He looks at Crowley properly and softens, smiles, takes his glasses off and quickly presses a little kiss to the bridge of Crowley’s nose. “It was much appreciated, though, even if it did almost ruin your back.” His voice is gentle and sweet and his eyes are so pretty and Crowley is definitely blushing like an absolute moron. They grin gormlessly at each other for a long silent moment of ‘this is our life, imagine that!’ before Crowley snaps out of it and hops up, pulling Aziraphale with him.  
“Right. You wanna go for brunch?”  
“I’ve never been more attracted to you in my life.”

…

After brunch and then dinner out, they’re on the sofa in the communal sitting room, watching A Room With a View because it’s Aziraphale’s birthday and he can do what he wants. The house is quiet. This is largely because Madam Tracy, like all middle aged women, dotes on Aziraphale and has therefore forced Mr. Shadwell to leave the house for once as a special gift. Anathema and Newt are both visiting family, but have sent a huge, hideous card and a little lapis lazuli pendant for him to wear. Anathema writes that ‘it'll help you realise you’re a bad bitch!!!’ which makes them both laugh a little. Aziraphale’s smile does go all watery when he puts it on, though, and Crowley notices him absent-mindedly rubbing it between his forefinger and thumb during the stressful parts of the film. Replacing old rituals. She knows what she’s doing, Crowley thinks. Bloody clever. He’ll endeavour to leave less dirty dishes in the sink in the future, as a thank you. 

Aziraphale has his feet up on the sofa and is curled into the cushion with eyes glued to the screen, quoting verbatim under his breath. He’s breathing evenly and brushing his thumb over Crowley’s knuckles from where their hands are clasped, but his face doesn’t really look peaceful. Well, his eyebrows are relaxed and he’s not frowning per sae, in fact the corners of his lips are slightly upturned, but his eyes are completely glazed over. He’s watching the film, sure, he’s engaging and he’s making contact with Crowley, but he’s so clearly a million miles away that it aches. Aches in Crowley’s chest because he just doesn’t know what to do sometimes. If Aziraphale cries, Crowley can hold him and ask him what’s wrong and plan to murder anyone who’s made him sad, but this isn’t sadness so much as it is an abscence. Crowley tries to pinpoint when he left. Somewhere between putting the film on and sitting down. Maybe something happened, maybe it didn’t. He won’t know for a while. He squeezes Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale squeezes back, looks over at him, smiles slightly and he’s back for a second. Crowley blows him a kiss with his free hand and Aziraphale almost laughs before turning around because it’s time for the music to swell and the lovers to kiss in the field. 

The film ends without Aziraphale crying, which is unusual, but he looks a little less glazed over and that’s a blessing. Crowley looks over at him and waits. He’s good at waiting. Aziraphale must sense that the quiet is expectant because he clears his throat and lets go of Crowley’s hand so that he can tszuj his hair as he takes a deep breath. “Um- Gabriel. Messaged me earlier.” He says with a small wince. Crowley is suddenly gripped by fantasies of driving all the way over to the stupid big posh house and throwing Gabriel straight out of a window, but he keeps his face neutral.  
“Oh?”  
“Mhm. Look-” Aziraphale hands him his phone. The chat with Gabriel is open and the newest message in blue reads ‘Happy birthday, kiddo! Can’t believe you’re actually nineteen. I miss you, we all miss you, call soon.’ All the messages above, bar one from last year which puts an even worse taste in Crowley’s mouth, have gone unanswered. Aziraphale is biting the beds of his nails. Crowley isn’t sure what to say, largely because he knows calling Gabriel a sanctimonious manipulative piece of fucking shit won’t go over well. He doesn’t have the chance to, though, because the phone chimes and Aziraphale leans over as they both look at the screen. It’s Gabriel again, sending a photo of a polaroid. On the white strip below the picture someone has printed ‘Zira’s 10th’ in neat copperplate. And yeah, Aziraphale is in the center of the photo among all those suited and polished adults, smaller and chubbier. In the photo his teeth are clearly gritted behind the smile and he’s looking at a nineteen-year-old Gabriel instead of the camera, awaiting instruction. Crowley feels a pang of something sad and angry.

They stare at the picture for what feels like a really long time. Crowley’s not sure when to look up, he doesn’t want to force Aziraphale into a reaction, but then it becomes unbearable to keep looking at the sorry scene and he has to click the phone off. He suddenly becomes aware that his shoulder is a little damp, and looks to the left. Aziraphale is still staring at the blank screen with tears rolling down his face. It’s not sobbing yet just an involuntary and constant stream of sadness. Crowley turns around so that they’re properly facing each other, tries to make eye contact, whispers “hey.” No response. He says it again and Aziraphale meets his eyes. His shoulders are beginning to shake. Crowley makes to reach out and touch his face, but gets a head shake in response. Aziraphale’s eyes have gone all red and he does cry a lot, but not this intensely. His breathing has turned ragged and he’s heaving with his head in his hands, trying and failing to not sob audibly. They sit like that for the best part of a half hour. Crowley feels vaguely nauseous from his position on the sofa, ready with tissues.

After a while Aziraphale sits up and looks at him with a little more clarity. He’s still crying, but it’s less all-consuming. Crowley’s expression must be pretty pained, because Aziraphale takes his hand and mumbles that he’s sorry. “It’s okay, of course it’s okay, angel.”  
“Not- not really.” His voice is all thick with tears and it aches. Crowley holds his hand a little tighter, he wants to get closer and kiss him and hold him and make it alright, but it’s important not to overstep. Aziraphale uses his free hand to rub his eyes, which just makes them more puffy. “I miss him. I miss all of them, I miss being in the house, at school, I miss every little bit of it and that’s- awful, isn’t it. That’s eff- fucked up.” His voice cracks as he speaks, “because I know, I know it wasn’t alright, what happened, I know I like it more here, of course I do, but I-” he sobs again and blows his nose quickly, “I miss knowing who I was and what every day would be like and what my purpose was and- knowing I was good.”  
“Did you, though?” There’s no point in telling him that he is, it won’t work. Aziraphale is stumped for a moment. Crowley strokes his hand and speaks softly, “cause, I mean, in that picture you don’t look like someone who knows they’re good. And, actually, I knew you when we were younger, when you were it in, and you were always worried you’d done something bad.”  
“Well- yes, but- sometimes? When I did everything right, I felt like I was- good. That felt great.”  
“Yes, but how many times did you actually manage to fully adhere to every letter of the gospel according to Gabriel? Seriously, angel, all that mental stuff about walking the right way?” He raises one eyebrow and Aziraphale laughs wetly in spite of himself,  
“...basically never!” And they’re both laughing now and Aziraphale leans back a little so Crowley can hold him and this is good, this is very good. He strokes his boyfriend’s hair and kisses the side of his face and holds him as close as he can.

It’s almost one in the morning when Aziraphale speaks again. They’re still on the sofa with Aziraphale’s back pressed up against Crowley’s chest, half asleep and hazy. His voice is less wet, more clear. “It is bad that I miss it though, isn’t it?”  
“Not bad, love-” Crowley shifts so that they’re facing each other again, pushes a curl out of Aziraphale’s line of sight, “nothing you feel is bad.”  
“But- I shouldn’t.”  
“I don’t think there’s a protocol you have to follow with these things. No manual or anything.”  
“I suppose not, no.” He’s staring at Crowley so intently, hanging off his words. It’s enough to make someone blush. Crowley smiles back at him, strokes along his jawline with his index finger as he speaks.  
“No schedule, either, so- I mean, take your time. Long as you need. Maybe wanting to go back will go, maybe it won’t. It’s all fine. No rules.” Aziraphale’s eyes have gone misty again, but not in the same way.  
“No rules.” He echoes with a proper smile before finally kissing Crowley full on the lips. It’s still a bit salty and clumsy, but extremely sincere. Crowley doesn’t have time to wonder if they should extend the conversation because someone is pulling him forward by his shirt and murmuring that it would actually be quite a decent extra birthday present if he’d do something and yeah, it’s game over for now.

...

“I just don’t know how you can have a room with no colour whatsoever in it, is all.” They’re in bed, laying on their backs next to each other, and Aziraphale seems to think this is a good time to berate his decor. Crowley rolls his eyes and pushes his boyfriend’s shoulder with no real force,  
“Go sleep in Anathema’s room, if it bothers you so much.” He says with a knowing smile. Aziraphale turns to one side so he can pout at him effectively,  
“But I’d miss you!”  
“Sappy. Gross.”  
“You bought me flowers and a card with a heart on it this morning.”  
“And I kept the receipt.” Aziraphale giggles at that, cuddles up to him. A disgustingly warm, sentimental feeling spreads through Crowley’s chest. He cards his hand through the soft blond hair that’s tickling his face. Aziraphale makes a soft, contented sighing noise,  
“I do love you quite a lot, you know.”  
“That’s pretty gay, angel.” And it’s Aziraphale’s turn to push him now, mumbling something about how he’s trying to be sincere and have a moment. Crowley kisses him quickly, to shut him up. “Love you too. Obviously.”

**Author's Note:**

> title is from a brilliant song by phoebe bridgers which you should totally listen to!! it's the best for when you're missing someone who hurt you and you just need some catharsis. 
> 
> comments greatly appreciated, and if you’d like to read more stuff in this au let me know!!!


End file.
